


Beyond the Blue Horizon

by nevtelenwriting



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Character Reflection, First (non drunken) kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Intercrural Sex, Lots of schmoop and need for love, M/M, Memory Loss, Nightmares, PTSD, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sharing a Bed, i don't know what i'm doing anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevtelenwriting/pseuds/nevtelenwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They started every day with either one step forward, or two steps back.</p><p>A reflection on Bucky Barnes's months--years--spent recovering after being the Winter Soldier, and what it means for the relationship he once had with Captain America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Blue Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know where this story came from, I literally originally planned on having metal-arm!fingering porn and instead I got no porn involving the metal arm and lots and lots of feelings. 
> 
> But there is sex. After a healthy amount of nothing but feelings.
> 
> Because I suck at titles, this one is taken from a song in the 1930s, aptly titled "Beyond the Blue Horizon." Beyond the blue horizon, lies the rising sun.
> 
> I thought it fit. Again, I am not meant to make titles. 
> 
> SPOILERS FOR CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER
> 
> I read this through three times on my own but alas, my regular proof reader cannot help my CA:TWS ramblings because she hasn't seen either movie. So I hope this doesn't suck too much.
> 
> Feedback and comments are greatly appreciated, as always.
> 
> EDIT: I fixed quite a few grammatical errors, it should be less painful. This is why you don't edit while sleep deprived.

Days turned into weeks turned into months.

Most of the time, he didn't know his name, or the name of the person he had pulled out of the water. It didn't matter how many times he went to the museum, read through the plaques of the man who shared his face.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Winter Soldier.

Both one and the same, yet he felt like neither.

Weeks upon weeks, upon months. It took over a year. Each day started with no way of knowing whether he would take one step forward or two steps back. All he knew was he had to protect, he had to _be there_ for his tar—his friend.

It paid off. At least, he hoped it did.

It took a hell of a long time for Bucky to remember enough about himself to feel like a human again. He didn't remember much, it had been burned out of his skull time and again for seventy years, too often to remember much of who James Barnes had been. If he was being honest, he was surprised he still knew how to go to the bathroom without being ordered to, let alone the memories of a mouthy, flirty juvie from Brooklyn.

But there were bits and pieces in between the empty chunks of time. Each day he remembered a little bit more, though most came from the last couple of decades rather than things that happened a lifetime ago.

The clearest memory he had of Bucky Barnes as a child was of him picking up a gangly boy from the dirt, helping him dust off after some bullies knocked him down. He was small, and blood spilled from his upturned nose he held between his forefinger and thumb. He remembered feeling guilt, confusion. They said something to each other.

“ _Why'd ya keep fighting 'em? They're too big for you.”_

“ _It's not right. They can't just pick on kids cuz they're bigger.”_

And something changed in him. Something dark and angry and bitter turns into...something. It made him smile, a real, genuine smile and not the smirk he used to tease others. He didn't think he ever teased a kid again after that. That gangly boy made him want to be better. Then introductions.

“ _I'm James Buchanan Barnes,” a sure, proud voice proclaims, words over-emphasized with the hint of a south-side accent, “But you can call me Bucky.”_

_The smaller boy frowns, “Who calls you Bucky?”_

“ _I do.”_

“ _Oh. I'm Steve.”_

“ _Nice t' meet ya, Steve.”_

They were hardly old enough to write yet, had just started up school when he met Steve but they were thicker than thieves from that day on. The want to tease turned into a want to protect that impossible kid who couldn't back down from a fight.

He always looked up to Steve, even when he got bigger and physically stronger than him, Steve was his voice of reason, kept him out of trouble and worrying his mother to premature greying. Steve kept him good, and he kept Steve from getting beat to death for his trouble. Funny how little things changed.

The rest of the memories from back then were a jumble; unclear, foggy emotions and sounds that could have been anywhere from when he was four to fourteen. Fist-fights, verbal fights, his father, James, a right ass and wanting it all to stop not long after meeting Steve or maybe before Steve. Steve made him stay, made him wait it out. It was too blurry to piece together yet, though. He just knew he didn't like the name James. It took him a long time to remember _why._

He remembered Steve was sick all the time, and that Steve was at his house a _lot_. In present-day, Steve told him his mom, Sarah, was in the hospital so much, first to work, and then when she got sick herself. Bucky wracked his brain for the memory but it never came up, not even a hint of Steve's home life. Just the memory of pressing against Steve's smaller, slighter body, sharing body heat and his own mother giving up after the fifth time of trying to pry the boys apart. Bucky wrapped around him secure and warm, and he remembered it was platonic, until he became a teenager and hormones kicked in and suddenly it wasn't so platonic anymore.

He remembered shame, guilt, and confusion there, too. Just for different reasons. Mostly very, very confused, since he had the biggest crush on Jenny what's-her-face, he couldn't place it anymore except she had pretty red hair, but he didn't want to stop holding Steve. He did anyway. Gave him more blankets and pried himself off.

He repressed, stifled, kept quiet. Seemed to be a theme in his life. He remembered loving each and every girl he pulled in, was able to flirt his way into their hearts and half the time, their bed, and convince them a one-off thing meant nothing in the long run. He was a lover, not a fighter.

The United States Army saw it differently.

Bucky remembered the War, just pieces, explosions and blood and pain and ordering people because someone thought it was a good idea to bump him up to Sergeant. Mostly it was that metal table and being prodded, stabbed, injected, drained, cut open and torn apart, bled dry and resuscitated because he held the most _promise_ and injected again—

And Steve. _Always_ Steve. Oh god, he hated what they did to him. He should never have been there in the first place, but the stupid punk got himself _experimented_ on and all he could think about was the experimentation under Zola's hands, needles and electrocution and scalpels and _pain_. He remembered more suppression, resentment, a night with too much booze and then he fucked up.

Then he was falling.

Gone.

Until he wasn't.

He remembered plenty after _that_. Seventy years more than he cared to.

Fragments of thoughts and emotions were nothing more than broken pictures to him, no matter how many days passed, no matter how much Steve told him it was good he was remembering so much now.

No matter how much came back, more often than not he viewed the pictures as a detached observer. There simply was not enough background information to muster an emotional response. He couldn't picture his sister's face, even if he remembered the sound of her laugh. He tried not to dwell on that, or the fact there weren't any photos of her to help him. He was too nervous to ask if Steve could draw a picture of her for him. He didn't know if Steve would be able to, anyway. It wasn't his job to fill in the gaps.

The key wasn't in the memories, though. More often than not he would rather live without the memories, since most of them involved pain.

What mattered was the autonomy they awarded him. The memories made him feel human, told him he was born and not made in a lab out of metal and blood. He was more than a weapon, an assassin, an attack dog. He had a _life_ before.

What mattered was the more time he spent with Steve, the more he recalled, and the more comfortable he felt inside his body, skin and metal alike. Steve told him he was more like himself every day. He didn't know what “himself” was, but he would take it. Anything but the emptiness. The itching and gnawing in his muscles eased little by little—sometimes he regressed, but hey, recovery wasn't a straight path, they told him—and he felt safe and sane enough to really let himself feel again.

Bucky was becoming _human_ again. He could almost function like an average member of society, if he felt so inclined.

If only everything else was so easy.

Despite the world they lived in now, the Age of Information they called it, or as Steve had fondly dubbed it, “the Age of Too Much Information,” some habits die hard. And he and Steve had plenty of deep, dark secrets and ingrained taboos to deal with.

They knew they were in a better world, a more advanced, more open country. That didn't change the era they grew up in. They shared a lifetime of fear and suppressed wants, as long as no one knew, then no one got hurt and even though they lived on the side of town that people looked the other way if people were too fresh, the moment anyone had an _idea_ that someone was bent, then... Then they were done. Years of tip-toeing, stolen glances, and all of a sudden, in this new decade with new people and new values their trepidation meant, well...nothing. Not nothing but Christ, no one cared nearly as much if two dudes boned anymore.

That's what they said, anyway. The news stated differently.

Regardless, they _did_ care if it was a national icon, or a war hero—even if Bucky felt anything but that, they had an image. Steve couldn't risk losing everything he had fought for. Steve may be brash enough to throw away what he had for what he believed was right, but Bucky was not. He couldn't let Steve do that, least of all for him. He had sacrificed too much.

Besides, Bucky wasn't even sure that was an option between them anymore. A world war, almost-death, seventy years, aliens, brainwashing, attempting to kill the other, a broken mind and a metal arm kind of changed the rules of the game.

And thus they spent the better part of a year walking on eggshells. Once Bucky was deemed relatively stable he moved in with Steve to live with his unofficial babysitter and assigned guard, but anything deeper than Captain America's duty was gone. More handshakes or pats on the back occurred than hugs, no kisses, even platonic ones like before their freeze, and absolutely no talking about feelings unless Bucky, stable fucker they signed him off as, had a relapse because a balloon popped or a kid screamed in play and he found himself curled against a wall, knife in his hand and sputtering nonsensical words in Russian. Those were the days he took three steps back.

He never remembered where he started before he was somewhere else, somewhere cold and dark and bloody but when he came back, it was always in Steve's arms. The awkward shuffles around each other broke down the moment Bucky fell apart. He wished that made him feel better than it did.

The first few months—more than a few—that was Sam's job, when he was still more Winter Soldier than he was Bucky Barnes and even then, “Bucky” was pushing it. Sam was there through the absolute worst and for that, he would always be grateful to the giant bird.

Not that Steve wasn't there, he was desperate to help but he was no counselor, and Steve knew when to ask for help. So he stayed at Sam's place, under the surveillance of Captain America of course, and Sam taught him how to breathe through the flashbacks, taught him how to find that one grounding point to bring him back to reality, to the present, something that could be found in the dark and held on to like a life preserver in a storm. It was Sam he woke up to at first, his calming voice that never patronized or made him feel less than because he couldn't handle a few kids playing ball in the park.

When he was more stable Sam had coached Steve through how to handle flashbacks. A grounding voice, repetition best. Gently take away anything harmful. Don't pressure. Never tell him to do something, only ask what he wants. Soldiers will always follow orders but he's not a soldier anymore. Encourage finding his grounding point.

Steve got it. They had all been through the same scenarios, just in varying degrees of crap.

It became a routine, their need for maximum body space maintained only until he had a flashback was as normal as making breakfast or going for a run together, and fuck him if that wasn't messed up. He stopped wondering why Steve bothered with him, at least. Captain America was as stubborn and loyal as they come, and he refused to let Bucky feel guilty for needing to be taken care of. Instead of asking, he bit his tongue. He let Steve help him because what else could he do? He didn't want to hurt Steve. He'd rather die.

So when Bucky panicked, Steve tossed the knife across the room and his hands on Bucky's hackled shoulders became a solid force that drove the cold away, and Steve's voice, just as it had the first time, dragged him out of the darkness and back into the right decade. His voice was the one thing—amid the blood and pain and barked orders and slaps and degradation into nothing but a slave, an _object_ , god—that reminded him it was _over_. There would never be a time he wasn't the soldier, but at least Steve made him remember he was human. Steve was his grounding point.

He wondered what Steve would think if he knew that. A mix of heat and sickness churned his stomach at the thought, and he contemplated not for the first time if Steve made him feel a little too human. When Bucky wrapped his head around the time, location, and person, his senses zeroed in on Steve's hands heavy on his shoulders, the repetitive motion of his thumbs brushing skin too acute to ignore. They were on his collarbone, but also on the seam of metal bolted into flesh, that ugly weapon attached to his body. He flinched back from that touch but the hand moved to his neck instead, and Bucky felt his heart hammer in his chest When Steve breathed his name like a mantra, a prayer, to bring him back, Bucky felt heat roll in his gut.

“Talk to me. Do you know where you are?” Steve asked.

Same old words, but with his fingers steady against his fluttering pulse, Bucky had to swallow thickly and resist the urge to lean in to that touch.

“My name is Bucky Barnes. I'm in your apartment. We're in the future because we're human popsicles.”

At least the response made Steve crack a smile, and for a moment, a brief, weak moment he entertained the idea they could stop the tip-toeing. But he couldn't— _Steve_ couldn't. Bucky pulled back, tucked his metal arm closer against his body and Steve let go without resistance. He left to grab them each a cup of coffee, and then sat on the floor next to him to drink in silence. Steve wouldn't look at him, and nothing Steve could give him to eat or drink could shake that cold.

It wasn't like they didn't _know_ about the elephant in the room. They had been dancing around this damn issue since they learned how their dicks worked. At least, Bucky was and he _thought_ Steve was too, until he remembered the War when his Big Bright Fuck-Up Happened. God, he still felt the mortification when he remembered that for the first time. Of all the memories his conditioning had taken away, it should have kept that one in the dark.

He had been drunk, fresh off of Zola's table and _despising_ what they had done to Steve. Steve was perfect, good, and righteous, and a stubborn ass to boot, so despite the resentment to the US of A's military force, he wasn't exactly surprised, either. He admired Steve for that, really, his half-witted loyalty to mankind and to justice. Steve had always been a hero. He just wished it didn't take a super serum for the rest of the world to see it, too.

Drunk moron he was, he told Steve as much, that he shouldn't have to pump himself with government issued protein shake for people to see he was a hero, or something along those lines, but he had no filter when he was drunk and he had told Steve, fucking _confessed_ like a love-sick puppy how he always admired him. How, if he could have, he would have made him an honest man when they were back home, if people wouldn't have shot them in the street for it. Steve stammered his confusion, asked him how much he had to drink, attempting to dismiss but Bucky pressed on. He said he would have snatched Steve up before turned into a dreamboat and started attracting girls like flies to honey. Not that the new body wasn't nice. He wasn't a fruit, he reasoned to him, still slurring, he didn't only like guys, he wasn't putting on or anything, he just liked them all and Bucky was sure there was some babbling about hands and hips and no shame in the Barnes's family in there before he started dozing on Steve's shoulder.

Bucky would be convinced until the day he finally died that Steve believed he was asleep when he replied, since no way in hell would Captain America, icon of justice have whispered, “Me too, Buck,” if he didn't think his best friend was out.

His voice had wavered, just a little, enough for Bucky to gather the courage—foolishness—to grab Steve by the front of his undershirt and lay one on him. He missed the first time, got most of his cheek but the second try he tasted his mouth, the whiskey they had shared earlier and his heart skipped a beat when Steve parted his lips and kissed him back, an unsteady hand curled into the hairs at the nape of Bucky's neck. It felt like Heaven.

Then Steve shoved him away and choked out “We _can't,_ ” and well, no further explanation necessary. They never spoke of it again, never touched again, not even like they used to before the big “Hey, I may be queer but I still like girls so maybe not as queer as I thought?” confession.

Bisexual. They had a clinical word for it in this century with no shame attached to it, and that, at least, helped clear up some of the confusion he had been living with. Even if Bucky would never be able to say no to the plump of a woman's lips of her curves, there was something about the narrow hips and hard cut of man's jaw. Specifically, Steve's. Even before the serum, he was enraptured with him. Not that he'd ever get that opportunity to know him that way.

So maybe it was unfair to hold something over his best friend he had said seventy years ago, but Bucky never said he wasn't a little bit petty. Besides, what else could he do? Steve never pressed, never gave a single inclination that maybe he still felt the same way he had back then.

Maybe Bucky had misread the signs, or worse, imagined the whole thing. He had been pretty drunk, and it wasn't like his brain was the most reliable source of information anymore. It could have been a dream.

Nothing in him told him that was the case. Bucky may not be all there in the head, but he knew his instinct and he wasn't blind. Steve wanted...something, at least he did in the past, only they couldn't have done anything about it back then without being discharged, or killed, and they couldn't now because Bucky was a shattered mess of what once used to be either Winter Soldier or James Buchanan Barnes. He was both, and neither at the same time. A forgotten landmine that could go off with the wrong step. It didn't surprise him that Steve wouldn't want to pursue that, yet he could see Steve physically resisting the urge to touch him more, kiss him, or hold him. He didn't get it, and the mixed signals were driving him nuts.

So back to eggshells. A day at a time, improving and falling back, rinse and repeat, and Bucky was certain he was merely running in circles with this.

The only reprieve they received from their distance was when Bucky's nightmares haunted him too much to sleep alone. They sent him back to a dark place, just like the flashbacks, only they could be shaken off easier and were remedied by waking up in Steve's arms. When he woke up in a cold sweat pressed against Steve, at least then he believed he was back home before the War, instead of fearing he was captured by the Russians or by Hydra in the night.

Steve wouldn't sleep next to him, at first. He would stay by his side, on the floor, waiting for the nightmares to disrupt him so that he could shake him awake. Finally, Bucky told him to get his ass on the bed and get some sleep. Steve was nervous, asked him if that's what he really wanted and Bucky had to resist the urge to punch him. He didn't like repeating himself. It was hard enough asking the first time.

So he threw the question back, and asked if Steve would be okay cuddling up to a Soviet assassin that could draw a knife on him in his sleep. Steve wasn't amused, but retorted he would do anything for him, knife in the gut or not, and that was that. He curled himself against Bucky's back, rigid and only touching where it was convenient for comfort and Bucky had to fight the urge to press back against him and search out a reaction that wasn't just his guilty sense of duty to Bucky or some repressed mixture of want and repulsion.

Steve most often fell asleep before him, his solid weight pressing closer in unconsciousness and his hips would press flush to his ass, arm tight around his stomach and Bucky wanted to scream at him to stop pretending they didn't have something, to be honest and just _tell him_ if he wanted or if he didn't, to just hug him without his flashbacks or nightmares prompting physical contact. He just wanted to touch his best friend again. He wanted this to be over. He wanted _Steve_.

It was a useless endeavor; Bucky didn't talk about that nonsense and Steve was even less inclined. Bucky would fall asleep with his back pressed against Captain America, his entire body a furnace that made him kick off the blankets in the night. Not that Bucky was any better, drooling on the arm he used as a pillow. Sometimes, he slept through the night and woke to peace and quiet. Other times, he awoke from heated dreams of Steve pinning him down and putting those hips to good use to uncomfortable morning wood, either from him or Steve and really, he was pretty sure he had fulfilled his karma quota of bad energy, he didn't need anymore punishment. He would think of dark things—he had plenty—and get rid of it, or if Steve's was the issue, he pretended he was still asleep so that Steve could figure out his awkward boner on his own. He would curse under his breath, quietly extract himself, and pretend that it never happened while he showered and got rid of it on his own. They never talked about it.

But most of the time, he had a nightmare sometime in the night. As soon as he was awake he gasped for breath in the cold—so _cold_ oh god, he didn't want to freeze again, they never knew how awake he was when the cold dragged him into oblivion, his body fought tooth and nail not to slip under until it couldn't any longer, it felt like he was _dying_ —and Steve's arms wrapped tight around him while he whispered his name, heat on all sides warming him away from the nightmare. He whispered his location, the year, but mostly _you're safe, you're safe Buck, you're here, you're with me_ until Bucky's heart beat slowed and he calmed down.

And then Steve would be _gone_ , grabbing him water or a book—Bucky never went back to sleep after those dreams—and he would sit up sketching while Bucky either read, or just stared. He wished Steve would touch him. He was desperate to feel him, feel _something_ , after those nightmares, but he didn't want to push.

He could see Steve's eyes lingering on him, even as he sketched or read. He could tell he wanted more and couldn't wrap his mind around why Steve wouldn't just take that extra step and do it. He couldn't figure out if it was guilt for what he couldn't control, or if he was remembering a time he _did_ want more, but now no longer. Bucky could feel his brain burning from the confusion until one day, while Sam was over Bucky overheard them talking.

“ _He's doing okay?”_

“ _Yeah, he has more good days than bad.”_

“ _Good. And you're not telling him to do anything, right? He has first say?”_

“ _Of course. I don't ask anything of him.”_

_Silence, and then, “You know Steve, you don't have to apply that to everything, you can still—”_

“ _No. It's gotta be him, Sam. I...I can't do that to him.”_

There had been strain in Steve's voice, a tightness so similar to longing that Bucky had the realization that Steve's lack of touch may have been the issue of permission. Maybe it wasn't his fuck up. He knew Steve had been told to wait until he gave explicit consent to anything, such as what to watch on the television or where they would go on their run together. He hadn't fathomed it would have gone so far as to avoid touching him.

So, Bucky broached the topic. When he woke up with teeth chattering and the burn of tears in his eyes, only calming down when he remembered where he was, who he was, who was pressed against him, he forced out through gritted teeth, “Don't leave.”

Steve was halfway up to retrieve water when he paused.

A small voice asked, “What do you want, Buck?”

“Just hold me, you ass.”

“Are you sure?” Again, unsteady, and Bucky nearly went cross-eyed with the frustration.

“I'm not asking twice.”

So Steve did. And for the first time, they fell back to sleep after a nightmare, Steve burying his nose into his neck and Bucky wished he had the courage to ask for more.

It was also the first time he realized that maybe the mixed signals weren't as mixed as he thought. Steve never asked, never acted, never said anything without Bucky's exclusive permission first. This may have been all it was.

The approval to touch certainly changed the way Steve held him. He thought Steve was clingy before but damn, he molded himself against Bucky like he was made to be there. His hands moved more in his sleep, from his stomach to his hip to his chest, mapping him out or maybe just acknowledging he was still there. His nose did the same, trailing across his neck, as well as his mouth. It did nothing to help the heat coiling in Bucky's stomach, the urge to press back into the hips flush against him or arch his neck for more of those light brushes. It was cruel in all purposes of the word.

He woke up the next morning with a vicious hard-on—not surprising—a dry mouth and a lingering headache from the nightmare. He also found Steve's cock nudging him in the ass, nothing new, but apparently, his half-asleep mind convinced itself it was a good idea to rock back into Steve's hips, something he had wanted to do since day one and it may have been pay-back for the touching Steve did in his sleep that night, but also because he was so tired of pretending he didn't want this. Bucky didn't realize, until a fraction too late, that Steve was awake this time around, when he heard the sharp intake of breathe from the super soldier behind him.

Bucky blinked, and chuckled to diffuse the sudden tension. “Happy to see me, Cap?”

Steve sputtered, still fumbling from the weirdness the situation had become. Bucky ground his teeth, trying to find a way out of this that would save face.

Steve spoke first, “I-I'm sorry, I should have—”

That nervousness, the embarrassed jerk of his hips away from him gave Bucky a gnawing sense of hope.

When Steve started to pull away Bucky grabbed his hand and left it planted on his hip. Metal gears clicked in the arm, cooled from the night. They started every day with either one step forward, or two steps back.

“Buck...?” His voice was quiet, barely rattling the air of the room.

“ _Please_ ,” he gritted out, “Please, Steve.”

He wanted one step forward with this, just once.

“B-But...you're not—”

Bucky pushed Steve's hand down between his legs, where his hard cock already tented his boxers. Steve's breath hitched, and he muffled what sounded like a choked groan in his throat.

“You sure about that?” Bucky breathed, a hint of a smile on his lips, but then it faltered, “Look, I...if you don't, I'm not forcing, I just—”

“ _Christ_ , Buck, _”_ Steve's voice cracked against his neck, his hand shifting away from between his legs to instead dig his fingers into the cut of his hip.

Bucky swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his throat as he moved his hand to Steve's hip, holding on as he shifted his ass back against him to rub against his erection. Steve couldn't hold back the groan that time, his hips twitching forward to meet him, his heat of his hard-on searing even through cloth and Bucky felt his eyes roll.

“Holy fuck Rogers, if you don't do _something—_ ”

“What do you _want_?”

Steve's voice was strangled, thick as he wrapped his arm around Bucky's front and dragged him bodily back against him again, trying to dig his forehead into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He felt Steve's heart pounding furiously in his chest, and he had to hand it to the serum, it made everything a hell of a lot more sensitive, for the both of them. Bucky's skin prickled and burned hot.

“Do I need to spell it out?” He countered, and reached back to slide a hand between Steve's legs, palming the thick line of his dick and Steve whimpered into his neck, his teeth scratching the skin while his hips gave a helpless little jerk. Bucky couldn't bite back his moan and Steve got the hint after that, letting go of his hip to fumble with his boxers, shoving them down his thighs to free himself and Bucky took the time to do the same, his hands trembling with how fast his pulse was racing.

Steve's breath came out in uneven pants, his mouth trailing wet kisses over Bucky's neck and Bucky had to be dreaming, there was no way it could be this easy after all this time even though Steve was _there_ , hot and hard as steel rocking against him like he would die if he stopped. His fingertips dug into his thigh before Bucky bit his lip and spread his legs, shifting his hips to let Steve's cock slide between them. The gasp it tore from his best friend's throat was worth it, as well as the nails biting into his thigh and the strangled hiss of his name when Bucky spat into the metal hand and reached between them to slick Steve's cock. The slick eased the rough friction a bit before he closed his legs and Steve's teeth dug into his neck from surprise, nails raking up his leg before clamping down over his chest to drag him as close as their bodies could physically fit together.

Bucky groaned Steve's name and threw his head back, silently asking for more while Steve complied with sucking his neck and nipping until he was covered with the possessive marks, his hand braced over Bucky's racing heart while he snapped his hips forward, unrelenting as a piston that made it impossible for Bucky to catch his breath. Sweat stung at his eyes, slid down his stomach and it felt _good_ , he couldn't remember the last time he felt like this. The harsh curse Steve managed to drag out of him only made Steve's driving hips pick up pace, the head of his cock brushing the back of his balls, over the sensitive stretch of skin behind them until Bucky started babbling his name and for him to fuck harder, to touch him, come _on,_ Steve _Christ_ , and he was still cursing, close to shouting when he grabbed Steve by the hair with his metal hand, dragged him forward to bury Steve's nose into his neck and he swore he felt Steve _throb_ between his legs. His nails dug into Bucky's chest as his hips stuttered, losing rhythm and force and Bucky had to grit his teeth to keep from coming from that alone.

“Oh god, Buck, I, I _can't—_ ” Bucky knew the sound of someone so close they could taste it and he almost laughed. He yanked Steve's hair again and was rewarded with Steve nearly melting against him, his mouth falling slack with the pleasure and panting hot into the back of his neck. So he liked his hair pulled, he'd have to remember that. Steve brought his hand down from his chest to fist Bucky's cock, swiping his thumb over the head, slick with precome and Bucky whined, his toes curling as he fought coming while he turned his head to bite into Steve's arm he had been using as a pillow earlier.

Apparently that did it for Steve. his breath halted in his lungs, falling apart with a trembling groan while his fist tightened over Bucky's dick. He barely had the time to let go of Steve's hair, to keep from ripping out strands, before he was coming in hot spurts over his best friend's hand with a shaking shout, his vision going white for a moment and his world zeroed in to the hot breath and tight hand pumping him through his orgasm.

When he caught his breath Steve had extracted himself from his body, using the end of the sheet to wipe them both clean, mostly Bucky who had gotten the brunt of it. Bucky shifted and grumbled, his limbs shaking from the nerves still short-circuiting. Steve chuckled, running a hand over his thigh just to see him jerk.

“You're still a punk.” Bucky rolled his eyes, smacking him in the side. Steve grinned and planted a kiss against his shoulder, and then lapsed into silence.

Christ. Nothing like impromptu morning sex to drop that elephant in the room.

Bucky chewed his lip, tapping his metal fingers over his hip before sitting up. Steve followed. Bucky crossed his arms over himself and Steve didn't touch him.

Steve started first, and it only made him curl in more to himself. “Bucky, I. I didn't.”

Steve stopped himself and Bucky felt his stomach sink. Here it was. The big mistake. Bucky shook his head and ran his hand through his hair.

“Steve, don't.” Bucky started, and swallowed hard, “Just don't. I _know_ you didn't want...I didn't mean to press—”

Steve laughed, but it came out almost hysterical. Bucky's brow creased.

“Wait, you—you think I didn't _want_ this?”

Now Bucky was lost. Mixed signals be damned, he was tired of this.

He turned his head, but not enough to look Steve in the eye, “Well did you or didn't you?”

Steve shifted on the bed next to him, likely crossing his legs. Bucky brought his gaze forward again, could feel the steps backwards falling into place already.

“I didn't. I mean, I did, but,” Steve cleared his throat, “No. Buck, I didn't want to _force_ anything. Come on, you've had enough of that.”

The weary catch in his throat was unmistakeable. He was still lost though.

“You said...you said we couldn't. Back then,” Bucky mumbled. The silence lasted several seconds longer than Bucky could bear. He bit his tongue and waited it out.

Finally, Steve broke the silence. He shifted on the bed again, closer, and asked, “You remember that?”

“Yeah.” Bucky scoffed. “I remember having way too much to drink, but I remember that.”

Steve fidgeted, silent again. When he felt Steve's hand on his shoulder it took everything in him not to pull away.

“You were _drunk_. I couldn't...not like that. I didn't think you remembered back then, let alone now, and...”

Bucky felt his heart sink, and of all the times he could count he was a moron, this one topped the cake.

“You thought I'd regret it,” he finished. Steve stayed silent.

Bucky sucked his teeth, and then shook his head with a chuckle, “I think we shared the stupid a little too well, Rogers.”

Steve said nothing, his hand tense on his shoulder but despite it, Bucky felt the frustration ease out of him just a bit. Bucky turned around to face Steve, the metal whirring as he relaxed his arms from where they were crossed.

Steve had his eyes closed, grinding his teeth, a habit not even the super serum could make him grow out of. Bucky smiled slightly and carded his fingers through Steve's golden hair. The touch made Steve sigh and lean in to his hand. He turned his head so that the flesh and blood palm ran over his cheek.

Bucky chuckled despite himself at that gesture, and it gave him the courage to press on. “I want this. Right here, right now. You with me, punk?”

Steve's eyes opened, searching Bucky's for something, and then he bit his lip. Bucky's heart picked up pace when Steve wrapped a hand in his t-shirt, and his pulse pounded in his throat when Steve pulled him forward to brush his lips against Bucky's with a hint of a kiss.

Bucky wasn't so subtle. He closed the distance and kissed Steve hard, sliding his hand to the back of Steve's scalp to drag him closer. The noise that escaped Steve's mouth, somewhere between a whimper and a moan tasted like sin and Bucky's arousal came back full force. The super serum had _some_ perks, at least.

He licked Steve's bottom lip until he groaned and parted his lips, both hands flying up to tighten in the front of his shirt when Bucky slipped his tongue into his mouth. He dragged them both up to their knees while Bucky's hands cupped his jaw, feeling the muscle and bone work as he slid his tongue into Bucky's mouth in kind, breath hitching sharply through his nose when Bucky sucked on the muscle. Steve didn't resist when Bucky pulled away, other than a small grunt of loss, to shove Steve back on his bed. Captain America complied without any protest and instead, spread his legs for Bucky to settle between them and fuck if that didn't make him _ache_. Steve was already hard again, too, his dick slotting against Bucky's and he couldn't help moaning into his mouth.

Scratch everything else. _This_ was Heaven, Steve hands running over his back and his chest like he knew him from the inside out. Bucky touching every inch of his skin with his mouth like he had spent a lifetime memorizing what could make him call out his name. Maybe it wasn't so far off the mark. Maybe they had wasted too much time being idiots, though that wouldn't come as a surprise to either of them.

Maybe Bucky was a broken fucking mess, and maybe Steve really sucked at being forward. Maybe they had a lot they needed to work on. All he knew was that, one step forward and two steps back, through the damn nightmares and flashbacks and the bad days, there would always be Steve. And that was enough. 

 


End file.
